Buon giorno Italia, our hot, tasty, sumptuous host for the next two weeks.
Having crossed the border (with Suze screaming "you were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!" - if only we'd been driving a mini) we noticed some instant changes. Gone were the swanky villas, the over-sized sunglasses and pint-sized dogs. The Laboutins on cobbles. The Beemers and the Mercs with Monte Carlo number plates. Even the sun. Just minutes over the border, the sky clouded over and the road, which had led us on a titillating journey along France's exclusive southern coastline, dipped inland past run-down farms and factories.
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But our first impressions weren't all bad. Perhaps it was the open passion of the Italians compared with the relatively reserved shrug your shoulders attitude of the French, but immediately, fingers pointed again, thumbs went up and jaws dropped. It was only the men who saw (or heard) us coming but it seemed they all did, young and old. A grey-haired gentleman stopped listening to his jabbering wife to stop and stare, only to have her prod him in his chest when she realised. Luigi and the boys in our first petrol station put in over double the fuel we requested as they were too busy admiring and asking questions. An Italian stallion in his pristine shirt and slicked-back hair stood on the pavement, saluting us with a waist height double thumbs up and nodding a lop-sided-lip grin, like some Elvis/Danny Zucko/Arthur Fonzerelli hybrid.
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It wasn't going to be hard to fall in love with Italy. On our first morning, Suze and I were making gnocchi with the ladies who ran the cafe and the next day Huw and I walked a few miles of the Cinque Terra national park. In a land of such stunning food, outrageous natural beauty, and deep-rooted culture as this, I could already tell every pound I was bound to pile on was going to be worth it.
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